


Kind of Strange

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: “I can make you human, don’t you want to be human?”In which Izaya grants wishes. Even the unspoken ones.





	1. Chapter 1

_“I can make you human, don’t you want to be human?”_

_“Fuck off, Izaya,” Shizuo says, lighting a cigarette._

_“You’re no fun today,” Izaya says as he leaps off of the fire escape he was twirled around, landing as lightly as a cat. “What happened? Did someone kick your puppy? Hurt your feelings?”_

_Izaya prances in front of him in the light drizzle, coat swishing about adding unnecessary drama to his movements. “Do monsters like you even have feelings?”_

_“What do you want, Izaya?” Shizuo says, flicking the ash off the tip of his cigarette._

_“Ooh, Shizu-chan is in an odd mood today,” Izaya says. “Will he tell me what’s the matter?”_

_“How much is it worth to you?” Shizuo says._

_“Isn’t that my line?”_

 

When Shizuo meets Hijiribe Ruri, he notices two things. 

The first is that Kasuka is as happy as Shizuo’s ever seen him. He’s even got a little smile playing on the corners of his mouth, lights in his eyes. 

The second is that Ruri smells like dead meat and blood and dust. Not the rotting stench, cloying and heady that Izaya reeks of, something forbidden and strange. More like the fresh death smell of a butcher shop, bloody and raw. 

She smells vampiric. 

 

_“Am I not human because you don’t love me, or do you not love me because I’m not human?”_

_“Ooh, Shizu-chan’s asking the hard-hitting questions. You should have been a reporter.”_

 

His brother deserves to be happy. 

It’s hard to tell with Kasuka, given that his face is about as expressive as a rock, but Ruri makes him happy. He can tell.

It’s really too bad he saw her face on the news last night. 

“She’s a wanted serial killer,” Shizuo says. 

“I know,” Kasuka answers. 

“And she reeks of vampire,” Shizuo says. 

“Dhmypr, actually.” 

That doesn’t make it better. 

 

_“What do you even sell?”_

_“Oh, this and that. Depends on what you want to buy.”_

 

It doesn’t surprise Shizuo that Ruri’s crimes catch up to her. He can tell it doesn’t surprise Kasuka either, though his face doesn’t show it. Doesn’t ever show anything.

“She left a hair at one of the crime scenes,” Kasuka says, emotionless. 

“Which one?” Shizuo asks, because there were ten of them that he knew of. Probably more. Those are just the ones were the killer was spotted wearing the face of a monster. Or, at least, a horror movie type monster. 

 

_“I help people, Shizu-chan. That’s more than anyone can say for_ you _.”_

 

Izaya’s apartment is an odd juxtaposition. It’s all clean, modern lines and minimalism, expect for the heady smell of drying herbs and exotic oils. Except for the shelves lining one of the far walls. There lies everything from a glittering diamond necklace to family photos of people who look nothing like Izaya to glowing, shapeless things in glass jars.

And there, over by the window behind a desk covered with all matters of computers, is the strangest thing of all. 

Izaya stops spinning in his chair, using his foot to stop his momentum. 

“Shizu-chan! Whoever expected that you would darken my door?” Izaya leans forward and rest his chin in his interlaced fingers. “What can I do for you today?” “Damn it,” Shizuo runs his fingers through his hair, before reaching for his box of cigarettes.“You know what I’m here for.”

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it.”

“I need your help.”

 

_He didn’t mean to._

_It doesn’t excuse it, not even a little, but it’s the truth._

_It was long, long ago. Well. Not that long ago, he’s not quite that old. But long enough to lose her face to the sands of time. He remembers the general shape of it, her eyes when she laughed. The shape of her broken leg, arm. White bone through pale skin._

_He didn’t mean to._

_But that doesn’t change a thing._

 

“What sort of help?” 

“I’m sure you’ve seen the papers,” Shizuo says, shaking a cigarette out. 

“I’ve seen all sorts of papers, and you have all sorts of problems,” Izaya says, strangely chipper. “But I suspect the problem you’re here for isn’t really yours, is it?”

“No,” Shizuo admits, “it’s for Hijiribe Ruri.”

“Ah, yes. Hollywood finally got herself caught, did she?” Izaya says, drawl lazy and amused. “And you’re here to secure her release for your dear baby brother, hmm?”

“Yes,” Shizuo says, restraining the urge to pick up the desk and clobber Izaya over the head. “Can you do it?”

Izaya laughs. It’s a happy sound, but it’s cold and sends shivers down Shizuo’s spine. 

“Of course I can do it. The only issue is the matter of payment,” 

“Payment?” Shizuo asks dumbly.

“Of course. You didn’t think I’d do it for free, did you?” Izaya says, starting to type on one of the many computers in front of him. 

“No,” Shizuo says, feeling defensive at the false accusation. “I just don’t have very much—”

“No, no. Not money, you idiot. We both know you could never hope to afford me that way.” 

Shizuo begins to grind his teeth, “and whose fault is that—”

“Yours, obviously, but back to the matter at hand,” Izaya says, standing and clapping his hands together. “It’d be easier to accept payment if it was your brother here to make the deal, but we can make do.”

Shizuo opens his mouth, but Izaya cuts him off with a wave of his hand, “yes, yes. Can’t have baby brother conferring with the likes of me. I’m assuming you’re going to want all charges dropped, yes? All evidence to disappear? The police to never look her way again?” 

“Um, yes.”

“And perhaps the media to never question where it went, the public to forget that there was a manhunt for their favorite idol? That’s going to be quite difficult.”

“That’s why I’m here, flea,” Shizuo growls. 

“My, I had no idea you thought so highly of me,” Izaya says, smirk curling along the edge of his mouth. “But it’s going to be expensive. Are you sure you’re willing to pay the price, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo thinks of Kasuka, of the tiny smile hiding in the corners of his mouth. How he was one of the few that never flinched away from him, even as Ruri tried to hide behind him.

“Yes.”

Izaya laughs again, “and you don’t even know the price yet. How brave.”

“You’ll want my strength, of course,” Shizuo says, confident. It’s the only thing he can think of that Izaya would think to be of value. 

“No, no. You have no idea how this works, do you?”

“Of course not, asshat. You think I do deals like this everyday?”

“See, this is an exchange,” Izaya says.

“I _know_ that.”

“No, you don’t. It’s an exchange of something you want for something you have,” Izaya holds up a finger to cut Shizuo off. “But it’s something you value. For many, that’s money. For some, it’s a trinket, a bauble.” Izaya comes forward towards Shizuo, in that fearless way he has, coming so close that he can feel the whisper of Izaya’s hair on his own forehead. “I can’t take your strength because you don’t want it to begin with.” 

Izaya spins away faster than Shizuo could grab, even if he had a mind to.

“But this is a more complicated case, because you don’t care personally about the fate of Hijiribe Ruri, only about her effect on your brother.” Izaya is tapping his finger against his lips. “I hate to do this, it reeks of unprofessionalism, but I’m afraid I’m going to take the standard.”

A cold feeling passes through Shizuo, “my soul?” 

“No, you twit, _time._ I was thinking about one-hundred sixty eight hours. That’s one week, precise, for your little protozoan brain. It’s really quite cheap, considering.” Izaya sits back down at his laptop, typing quickly, fingers flying. “I won’t take it all at once, of course. And you’ll have no say when I take it.” A few more keystrokes and a printer Shizuo didn’t notice comes to life. Izaya scoops up the sheet and takes something from the drawer, walking back to Shizuo. “You know, the chairs aren’t just for decoration. You can sit in them, that’s what they’re there for.” 

Izaya hands him the paper, “you can read it. Well, you _should_ read it, whether you _can_ is another matter. It’s just what we’ve agreed on in so many words. I, of course, never stray from the contract. But every once in a while, someone tries to cheat me.” Izaya smiles, sharp and dangerous. “But you’re too honest for that, aren’t you, Shizu-chan? Well, when you’re not trying to free serial murders from the hands of justice, at least.” 

Shizuo is trying to read the contract, but it’s hard with Izaya blabbering in his ear. It does seem to be the terms, laid out nicely in black and white, with a small space at the bottom. “Do you have a pen or something that I can sign this with?”

“A pen? This isn’t a normal contract, Shizu-chan.” Izaya’s arm moves in a familiar arc, and all of a sudden Shizuo realizes that Izaya’s too close, he’s too complacent. But Izaya is also nothing if not too fast, and the knife is embedded in his side and gone again before he can move away. 

He can see through the fast approaching tide of rage that Izaya is smearing the blood from the knife on the bottom of the printer paper. The effect is jarring, the bright red of blood on the clean white of the paper. Something of the arcane on something of the modern. 

But the anger is approaching, seizing up his body, and he’s reaching for something, anything to swing at Izaya, when he finds that his muscles won’t move. They won’t respond to increasingly desperate demands.

 “Ah, Shizu-chan, did no one teach you any manners? So rude, to attack someone in their own home.” Izaya is sitting on the edge of his desk, facing Shizuo with arms crossed in front of his chest. “We’ll be in touch, Heiwajima Shizuo.”

 

_He’s preceded by the smell of death._

_“Hey, Shi-zu-chan.”_

_It’s cloying, sickly sweet smell that fills your nostrils and your head until there’s no room left for thinking. It used to turn his stomach, but he’s, well, not gotten used to it, but become somewhat accustomed._

_“Fuck off!”_

_Neither Shizuo or the flea are surprised by the flying vending machine._

_Izaya is gone before it lands, the scent of death dissipating in the air._

 

He’s at work, because he’s always at work when Izaya finds him.

“Shizu-chan!” Izaya is waving across the street from where Tom and he are walking to their next location, skipping across the road with no apparent concern for the cars running across the road. 

Tom heaves a sigh, gusty and resigned. 

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says as he gets closer. “I’m afraid I’m going to need to call in your debt.”

 

He doesn’t remember going home, but he wakes up in his own bed.

 

He wakes up one morning more tired than when he went to sleep. The taste of copper is heavy in his mouth, like he’s bitten his tongue in his sleep, and his knuckles are sore. 

He doesn’t think anything of it until he gets to work, when Tom-san casts a critical eye over him. 

“Are you feeling well, Shizuo? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. Because there’s no reason for him not to be. 

Tom-san shrugs, “if you say so.” 

And he is mostly fine, trudging along after Tom, making light conversation. 

It’s not until he hears the TV over the pleading, “please, I only need a few more days, a guy I know—”

“Shh,” Shizuo says. 

“But—” 

“I said shut _up,”_ Shizuo moves further into the apartment to get a better look at the massive flat screen. 

“—large number of casualties after a large gang brawl in Ikebukuro last night, ten still in the hospital.” A picture flashes and changes to a grainy surveillance shot, a mass of bodies. It’s hard to tell, given how cruddy the quality of the photo is, but the blond head in the middle of it all couldn’t be anyone else.

“Police are looking to interview anyone who knows—”

Shizuo is already on his way to Izaya’s apartment.

 

“What happened that night, flea? Why can’t I remember anything?”

“Well, look who it is. I think you’ve visited me more these past few weeks than all the time we’ve known each other,” Izaya is casually sitting on the couch, cup of tea in hand. He doesn’t even turn to look when Shizuo rips the door off the hinges, which does nothing to improve Shizuo’s rage. 

“Answer the damn question!” 

Izaya does turn to look at Shizuo then. “Don’t you remember, Shizu-chan? You gave me that time as your price. It’s mine now, not yours.” 

“What does that have to do with why I can’t remember anything?” 

“Because,” Izaya says slowly, “if you remembered, it would still be your time, no? This isn’t like your job, Shizu-chan. You don’t gain experience. You don’t gain anything, because that time is _mine._ I think you should be glad I didn’t just chop it off the end of your lifespan.”

“I need those memories back.”

“Why is that, Shizu-chan?” Izaya flicks his gaze back to the TV. “Is it because of what was on the news? You can’t trust everything you see on TV, you know.”

“Then just _give them to me.”_

“But they’re mine, Shizu-chan. What will you trade me?”

“I’ll trade your continued well-being, how’s that?”

“Threatening me in my own domicile again? You should know better than that.”

Shizuo’s muscles lock, he can’t take another step. Can barely breathe through the iron bands constricting his chest. 

Izaya gets off the couch and comes over to where Shizuo is standing, frozen. He gives him an assessing look. 

“Hm, I think your memories are worth your bowtie. How about it?”

“No way in hell,” Shizuo grits out between his teeth. 

“Then get out of my apartment.”

 

_“I’m here. What was it that you needed me for so desperately?”_

_“Shizu-chan!” Izaya says, standing from the couch, apparently unconcerned about his broken doorknob. “Perfect timing! I was just about to put the movie on!”_

_“Movie?”_

_“Yeah. It’s a moving picture show. Surely even you’ve heard of them?”_

_“You called me halfway across town to watch a movie?”_

_“It’s a scary movie, Shizu-chan! I can’t watch it by myself.”_

_“You’re shitting me.”_

_“If you remember, it’s my time to do with what I want. And I want to watch a movie.”_

_Shizuo gives him a hard look, “what are you planning?”_

_Izaya gives him a dazzling smile. “To watch a movie! Like friends do!”_

_“We’re not friends,” Shizuo reminds him, because it needs to be said._

_“That’s not important. You sit, I’ll go make popcorn,” and he prances over to the kitchen and rummages through the cabinet, if the sounds are anything to go by._

_Shizuo moves over to the couch and sits cautiously. When it doesn’t explode from a pressure bomb, he relaxes more fully onto it, pulling out his carton of cigarettes._

_“Ah, no smoking, Shizu-chan!”_

_And putting them straight back._

_Izaya comes back holding a bowl of popcorn, plopping next to Shizuo and offering the bowl._

_“What movie are we even watching?” Shizuo asks._

_“Hm, it’s something Shinra recommended a long time ago.”_

_Shizuo lets his head thunk back agains the couch and groans, “that’s stupid. Shinra only likes to watch movies that will make Celty cling to him in terror.”_

_“Celty is a god of death, what could possibly scare her? Well, besides traffic cops.”_

_Shizuo gives him a_ look. _“Aliens.”_

_“You’re shitting me.”_

_“Nope.”_

_“She knows aliens aren’t real, right?” Izaya says, popping a handful of popcorn into his mouth._

_“Neither are headless fairies, right?” Shizuo counters._

_“You have a point.”_

_Izaya starts the movie. It’s mind-numbingly dull and border-line rage inducing._

_“Why are you running_ towards _the monster?!”_

_“Calm down, Shizu-chan.”_

_“DON’T SPLIT UP IDIOTS.”_

_“It’s the most logical course of action.”_

_“WHY DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE TIME TO HAVE SEX?!”_

_“There’s always time to have sex— please put down the coffee table, it was expensive.”_

_Before long, the credits are rolling and Shizuo is simmering in a low-grade rage._

_Izaya stretches his arms over his head, popping his spine. “Well, it’s been real, Heiwajima Shizuo. You may go home now.”_

 

 

He didn’t mean to. 

No, that’s not quite right. He _did_ mean to, just not to Kasuka. 

He’s not quite sure what he did, but Kasuka has three cracked ribs and a broken arm and some internal bleeding to boot. He might have a concussion, but he hasn’t woken up yet, so it’s hard to tell. 

That’s at least what the doctors have told him. 

Shizuo’s staring at his hands next to his brother’s bed, wallowing in his guilt he wishes he could do something, anything. 

“Hey, Shizuo! We came as soon as we heard,” that’s Shinra, entering the private room like he’s supposed to be there and picking up Kasuka’s chart with all the confidence of someone’s who’s not radically invading another’s privacy. Celty trails behind him, helmet firmly in place, but thumbs flying over her keyboard. “Whoa, you really did a number on him! Ow! Celty!” 

Celty uses one hand to whack Shinra, the other extended so that Shizuo can read, _are you alright?!?!_ Tapped out on the phone.

But that’s not really the question to be asking, is it? 

He looks again at Kasuka, pale even against the whiteness of the sheets. 

He didn’t mean to.

But that doesn’t actually change anything.

 

“Ah, Shizu-chan. What a surprise,” Izaya doesn’t seem surprised in the least. He doesn’t even get up from the couch, instead taking a long drag from his tea cup. “Are you here to let me make you human?”

“No.”

“Then I suppose you’re here about the terrible tragedy that’s befallen Yuuhei-san, ne? How awful, I hear it looks like he got mauled by a beast,” another sip from the teacup. “But I suppose that’s not far from the truth at all.”

Shizuo doesn’t move any farther into the room from the doorway. 

“How’s he faring? I’ve seen his medical chart, of course. But there’s nothing quite as telling as an air of despair at the bedside.” 

And Shizuo finds his voice. “They don’t know if he’s going to wake up.” It doesn’t sound like him at all. 

Izaya takes a sip of his tea. “Are you here looking for comfort or looking for a deal?” 

“Why would I ever come to you for comfort?” Shizuo spits. 

“Ah, and here I was thinking we were growing close. Come, sit. I’ll make you tea.” Izaya laughs at Shizuo’s look. “Don’t worry, I won’t poison it.”

Izaya disappears into the kitchen, the sounds of clinking china and the pour of water echoing through the spacious apartment. Shizuo sits on the couch, feeling disjointed and out of place. 

Izaya comes back out of the kitchen holding a single cup and a bowl of sugar, setting them down on the table in front of Shizuo.

“Now,” Izaya says, resuming his previous seat, taking up his tea cup. “What is it that you want?”

“Don’t you know?”

“You have to say it.”

“I just want my brother to wake up,” Shizuo says, voice cracking. 

“The price,” Izaya says, “will be steep.” 

“I’ll pay it. Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.”

“Drink your tea, Shizu-chan. Don’t let it go to waste.”

Years of politeness have the tea cup in his hand and help him not to spit it out as soon as he takes a sip. 

“Add sugar, you heathen. I brought it for a reason.” 

Izaya watches with steady eyes as Shizuo adds one spoon, two. Three. Takes a sip.

“Drain it.”

Shizuo does, tilting the cup back until it flows easily down his throat. At least, until he chokes on something. He stops drinking spluttering as he spits whatever was in his tea out into his palm. Izaya snatches it before he can get a proper look, holding it up to the light and examining it. 

“You tried to kill me!”

“No, no,” Izaya says. “I’m granting your wish.”

Shizuo looks more closely at what Izaya’s holding. It’s round and smooth, like a marble, but more oblong shaped. It’s mostly clear except for a murky red that coils and shifts inside the glass. 

“Put this inside your brother’s mouth, under his tongue,” Izaya says, placing the marble back into Shizuo’s palm. “He’ll wake up as soon as you leave the room.” 

“That’s it?” Shizuo breathes. 

“That’s it.” 

Shizuo starts to stand.

“But,” Izaya says, sharp. “You can never contact your brother again. No talking, no texting. No meaningful looks across the room. Nothing. If you break this, your brother will fall back into a coma. And this time, your brother will not wake up.”

Shizuo stares at the marble in his palm. 

“You know, Shizu-chan. This wouldn’t have happened if you just let me make you human.”

 

 

He’s sitting in a chair next to Kasuka bedside rolling the marble in his hand, listening to the beep of the heart-rate monitors when Celty sits next to him. 

_That’s dangerous magic,_ she types on he PDA. _Where did you get that?_

“Izaya,” he answers, short, and she sits up ram-rod straight. 

_You made a deal with him?!?! Do you know how DANGEROUS that is? What he’d charge you for that?_

“Nothing yet.” 

_What?!_

“He said it will wake him up but,” Shizuo swallows, “I can never see him again.” 

_And you’re considering it???_

“Can you guarantee that he’ll wake up?”

Celty doesn’t say anything. 

“That’s what I thought.”

 

It’s after the fifth day of listening to the steady beeping of the heart monitor that the doctors begin to be unable to meet his eyes. 

He feels the marble in his palm.

It seems too big to fit under a tongue, but it slots in like it was meant to be there.

The quality of the steady beeping changes as he steps over the threshold, but he doesn’t look back, not even as doctors swarm into his brother’s room. 

 

_“I always thought I’d like you better like this. But I was wrong.”_

 

“Hey, Shizu-chan! You came! Ooh, you don’t look so good.” 

“Thanks, flea.”

“Just an observation,” Izaya says, skipping back to his desk from the door. “You’re not as fun as you used to be, Shizu-chan. You don’t even chase me around Ikebukuro anymore.”

“You’ve been in Ikebukuro recently?” 

Izaya sighs, “that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t even care anymore. You know, that’s a sign of depression, not being able to take enjoyment out of things you used to.”

“You think I enjoyed seeing your disgusting face?”

“I’m worried about you, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, ignoring him. “That’s why I’m prepared to give you status reports on your brother for you, for a small price, of course.” 

Shizuo can feel the anger growing up the back of his throat, choking it off. “You mean the brother I can’t see because of _you?_ ” He’s got Izaya’s shirt front in his grip before he’s quite sure what he’s doing, dragging Izaya so close he can see the flecks of red in the other’s eyes. 

“No, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says softly, sharply. “The brother you can’t see because you nearly killed him.” Izaya, if anything, comes closer to speak directly into Shizuo’s ear. His breath isn’t warm when it plays over the shell of his ear, it’s cold. “Aren’t you sick of hurting the ones you love? Breaking them like glass in your palm? I could fix that for you. Turn you from a monster into a human.”

“I _am_ human,” Shizuo says softly, the words tangling in his throat. “It’s you who’s the monster.”

 

_“All you have to do is stand there and look menacing while I play cards. Easy for you, ne?”_

_“That’s it?”_

_“Well, and try not to look disturbed when the other player starts crying. I do try and remain professional.”_

_“Why the fuck would he start crying?”_

_“Well, we will be playing for his soul. They all do that when they lose. But really, what did they expect?”_

 

“Oh?” Izaya pulls back, starts to circle around Shizuo his a predator, hands in his pockets. “What makes you say that?”

“Humans love each other,” Shizuo says. “It’s what makes us human. You prey on that love. That’s what makes you a monster.” 

“I love humans,” Izaya says. 

“You don’t. Love it knowing someone forwards and backwards. Love is doing anything for them to make them happy. Love is knowing their dark parts and still sticking around.”

“But who loves you?” Izaya says. “Who loves you and your strength, not _despite_ your strength and anger.”

 

_“What’s that?”_

_“Oh, this? It’s someone’s love for their daughter. Rather puny, isn’t it?”_

 

“Shizuo,” Tom says, and he looks serious. “We have to let you go.” 

“What? Is it because of the—”

“No, no. We’re used to paying damages. It’s because you’ve left during the work day six times in the last month. Where are you even going?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo says honestly. 

 

_“What would it cost me to become human?”_

_Izaya perks up, “ah, are you finally considering it?”_

_“No, I’m just curious.”_

_“Curiosity killed the cat, Shizu-chan.”_


	2. Chapter 2

_ “According your own definition, Shizu-chan, I love you most of all.” _

 

Shizuo seeks out Celty. It’s odd, it’s not usually hard to find the headless rider, if one follows the whispers, but today it’s nearly impossible. 

He goes to Shinra’s apartment, knocking on the door.

There’s a scuffling on the other side of the door, then a beat of silence.

Shrina opens the door a crack, just enough to let Shizuo know he’s there. 

“I can’t let you in,” he says. “Celty says you’re cursed.”

“Can I at least talk to her?” he says to a closed door.

 

Shizuo ends up at Izaya’s apartment because it seems like the place to go. 

“Ah, Shizu-chan, what a surprise,” Izaya says, sounding not surprised in the slightest. “Lose another job?”

“Yeah, no thanks to you.”

 

_ “I suppose it’s good for you that I live for helping poor souls with no one else to turn to.” _

 

“Celty says I’m cursed. Do you know anything about that?”

“I know everything about that,” Izaya says, typing away at a computer. “You should too.”

“I didn’t agree to any curses.” 

“Yes, you did,” Izaya counters. “You’ve fated your brother to drop dead if he should contact you. How’s that not a curse?”

 

“I’ve been looking for an assistant,” Izaya says. “I think you’ll do nicely.” 

Shizuo snorts, “what makes you say that?”

“Because you already have been. I wouldn’t pay you, it’d be more of an equivalent exchange, of sorts. You run a few errands for me, and I’ll repay you in room and board and the like. What do you say?”

“Where would I sleep? You’ve only got one bedroom.”

“In the bedroom, of course.” Izaya titters at the expression on Shizuo’s face. “Not like that, you perverted idiot. I don’t use it. It would be all yours.”

 

“Put the kettle on, would you, Shizu-chan? We’re expecting a client.”

Izaya is curled up on the couch, feet pressing into Shizuo’s thigh and kicking him when he doesn’t immediately reply. 

“Lazy.”

“Hm. But that’s why I have you.”

 

Shizuo spends hours on Izaya’s couch, contemplating the ceiling. Every once in a while, Izaya will get up and put the kettle on. As soon as it clicks with boiled water, a knock will sound at the door. Some are brash and demanding. Most are timid and uncertain. 

“I’ve been expecting you,” Izaya will say, and Shizuo now knows it to be true. 

“I want this girl to fall in love with me,” some say. 

“I  _ hate  _ my wife,” others say.

“I want to be rich.” 

“I want to be beautiful.” 

I want. I want. I want.

“Of course,” Izaya says to all of them. “But there will be a price.” 

Shizuo thinks Izaya may have forgotten about him, unnaturally still and silent on his couch. 

 

Shizuo wakes one morning to find Izaya still sitting at his desk where he left him. But this time, he’s got some sort of ball in his hands, tossing it up and down as he watches the sun work its way over the buildings of Shinjuku.

But he comes closer and can see it’s not a ball at all. Not even close to the right shape. There’s a wave of bright red that catches the sunlight with each toss, but it’s not until Izaya stops tossing it, cradling it like a lover that he realizes what it is. 

“Jesus  _ fuck,  _ Izaya, that’s a fucking head!”

“Your powers of observation are unparalleled,” Izaya says dryly. “But don’t worry. It was detached when I found it. Catch!”

The head comes hurling towards him, hitting him square in the chest. The first thing he notices is that it’s strangely warm, as if it’s still attached to a body. The second, that it’s strangely beautiful, brilliant green eyes half-lidded, red hair shining, delicate but sharp bone structured. 

“Celty,” he breathes.

“Got it in one,” Izaya confirms. 

“Don’t you know she’s looking for this? Why do you have it here?”

“Of course I know she’s looking for it,” Izaya says slowly. “That’s  _ why  _ it’s here. Shinra asked me to keep a hold of it.” 

“Shinra?” Shizuo says. “But he loves Celty, why wouldn’t he want her to have her head?”

“Because he loves her,” Izaya says, smiling wide, showing far too many teeth. “And doesn’t want her to leave.” 

“But Celty wouldn’t—” he pauses. He’s not actually sure she would stay should she have her head. “But if he loves her, wouldn’t he want her to be happy?”

Izaya hums and shifts so he’s lounging on his seat. “Would he? Even if she left him to be happy? Wouldn’t it be better if she never knew and stayed with him?”

“That’s not love,” Shizuo says, feeling sick. “That’s control.”

“For some, that is love.” 

“Is that what you think?” Shizuo can feel the anger rising, wants to punch Shinra’s face in and carry Celty somewhere far, far away. “Is that what love is to you? Making others dance to your tune?”

“You should know me better than that! I love all humans, but I can’t control all of them. That would be impossible.” Izaya spins in his chair, lazily. “I would even love you, if you were human.” 

“If you love everybody, then you really love nobody,” Shizuo says, gently placing Celty’s head on the table. He’ll tell her about it later. 

“How do you figure, Shizu-chan?”

“If you love everybody the same, then you don’t care for anyone above anyone else. It’s the same as loving nobody. Nobody matters to you, everybody is as equal of your apathy as your attention.”

“Ah, true, true. So why do I love them all, Shizu-chan? Hm? Great master of love and life that you are, tell me?”

“So they don’t hurt you. Because you think that if you love somebody, they can do no wrong. You think that you can hurt anyone for love and it will be justified. Because you learned love from Shinra, and Shinra didn’t know what love was either.

“Because you didn’t know any better. You still don’t, and nobody told you otherwise.”

 

_ Shizuo wakes up one morning with a crick in his neck and Izaya sprawled on his lap, watching him with dark red eyes. _

_ “What you looking at?” _

_ “To be honest, Shizu-chan, I haven’t the faintest clue.” _

 

Izaya’s apartment has loads and loads of little quirks and oddities. The door to the closet in the bedroom won’t stay shut. The kitchen tap doesn’t always pour water, sometimes it’s something purple and thin and sometimes it’s something red and viscous. Sometimes the large floor to ceiling windows go dark with a star scape he’s never seen in the middle of the day. The mirror in the bathroom is perpetually fogged, until after a shower when it becomes clear as crystal. 

It’s hardly a real issue, he just shaves after his shower instead of before, rubs the sleep out of his eyes post-shower instead of pre.

It must be a trick of the light, but sometimes he swears he sees his reflection blink.

 

_ “If you’re human, I’ll let you see your brother again.” _

_ “That sounds like a trap. No, thanks.” _

_ Izaya smiles, but it’s not kind and it’s not warm. He cocks his head to the side, gaze heavy and considering.  _

 

Being Izaya’s assistant is the easiest job he’s ever had. Most of the time, he’s on Izaya’s couch, flipping through channels on the TV, only occasionally interrupted by delivering small and large packages and standing on random street corners until Izaya calls him and tells him to come back.

Sometimes, Izaya curls against him like a cat when he’s on the couch, bony spine pressed against his leg. He doesn’t radiate warmth at all, he’s room temperature if anything, but it’s oddly comforting.

Sometimes, he just watches as Izaya conducts deals within the apartment. 

He feels useless and at lost ends. 

“Oh no, Shizu-chan,” Izaya reassures him, “you serve a very important role.”

“And what’s that?”

“Like most house pets, you make your owner happy and amused.” 

 

_ “I don’t grant wishes for free, Heiwajima Shizuo.” _

 

One night, Izaya refuses to let him go to bed. 

“Ah, but Shizu-chan, business hours aren’t over yet!”

“What? You’re usually done by now.”

Izaya uses his foot to spin in his chair. “No, you just usually go to bed by now. But I have need of you tonight. You’re good with children, right?” 

 

_ The door won’t budge no matter how hard he pulls on the handle, no matter how much the wood strains and creaks.  _

_ “I have a deal for you, Heiwajima Shizuo. Lets play a game.” _

_ “Fuck you, flea. I’m not taking any deals like that.” _

_ Izaya scowls at him.  _

 

He’s eating lunch at one of the many fast food joints in the area, Izaya’s package at its destination when he sees her. 

She’s standing outside the windows, looking in at him and smiling. When he catches her eyes, she smiles and waves, like they’re old friends, even though she’s far too young to have known him for any length of time.

It could be one of Izaya’s messengers. It could be a customer he’s meant to meet. He stands and goes outside to greet her, where she waits, hands behind her back. 

“You’re Heiwajima Shizuo! I remember you!”

He’s certain he’s never seen her before in his life.

She’s small and young and has an air of innocence around her so thick it’s almost impossible to imagine her having anything to do with Izaya and his slime at all. He must know her from somewhere else.

“You were so nice to me,” she says, rocking back on her heels. She gives him a smile, sweet as can be.

_ “Die.”  _

He takes a step back as she comes closer, but she’s already too close. There’s a pain in his side like being kicked with bone-shattering force that spreads throughout his body as fast as he can take a breath. He grabs the taser from her hands as rage chases out the pain, as she falls to the ground. He sees red, feels like a live wire waiting to burst. 

But she’s just a child. 

 

_ “You don’t even know what you want.” _

 

“What do you have there, Shizu-chan? I didn’t tell you to pick anything up.”

“She collapsed on the street,” Shizuo says, setting her down gently on the couch. “I couldn’t leave her there.” 

Izaya comes over to peer over the side of the couch. His expression goes from mild curiosity to stone hard in the blink of an eye.

“Stupid, stupid, Shizu-chan. You shouldn’t have brought her here. But what’s done is done, I suppose. I’ll make a few calls, try to clean up your mess.”

Izaya walks back over to his bank of monitors, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket. He moves fairly quickly, one second at the couch, the next at the desk.

“My mess? She’s the one that tased me!”

“It’s only a little preemptive retribution, Shizu-chan. You are going to kill her father, after all.”

Shizuo reels like he’s been slapped, his mind blank. He’s never, ever killed a man. Not even at his most violent. Celty told him so, and she would know. 

“I would nev—”

“Or, I suppose I should say, you  _ could  _ kill her father,” Izaya gives Shizuo a small smile, “I could always make you hum—”

“No.” 

“Oh, come now, Shizu-chan. I’d even be willing to give you an employee discount!”

 

_ “I’m rather surprised you didn’t kill her, Shizu-chan. I thought you might.” _

_ It takes a moment for Shizuo to parse that, to follow it to its logical conclusion.“You set me up!” _

_ “Not quite. Ooh, that upset you. My bad. I’ll make it all better.” _

 

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says one morning, sipping a cup of tea. “Would you go—”

Izaya stops himself, staring out the window. “Actually, stay. There’s something you need to see.”

“Should I put the kettle on?” 

“No, no,” Izaya says. “Our guests don’t drink like you and I do.” 

“What? Everything has to drink or they die.”

Izaya turns to look at him then, and his gaze is piercing, serious like Shizuo has never seen it before. 

“There are some things, Heiwajima Shizuo, that are beyond  _ both _ of our comprehensions.”

 

Shizuo wakes up on the couch with Izaya hovering over him. 

“What? Did the guests come already?”

“Ah, yes, Shizu-chan. You greeted them by fainting. I suppose they might have been too much for your tiny little brain to handle. But that’s alright. Most mortals can’t take it.”

That night, Izaya shares the bed with him, back pressed against his.

Shizuo doesn’t mind. He only has vague images of  _ things  _ that shouldn’t exist and they haunt him well into the night.

 

Shizuo is on a rooftop, wind tugging at his hair in the constant gust of the wind on tall buildings. Izaya is next to him, barely visible in the weak moonlight, only identifiable by the light reflecting off his switchblade smile. 

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, lilting and sing-song. “I bet you didn’t know that I grant wishes given to me over the internet, too.”

“No,” Shizuo says, because it seems like Izaya is waiting for a response. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a cigarette. 

“I do,” Izaya says, and his smirk is widening. “I’m even kind enough to do it free of charge.”

Shizuo feels his fingers and toes start to go cold, his heart start to thump slowly, heavily. 

“What—” he starts, but the words get caught up in his throat. He swallows and tries again. “What kind of wishes?”

“Oh, you’ll see, you’ll see,” Izaya says, smirk becoming a grin, nearly manic in its intensity. “Here she comes now.”

The door to the roof swings open, revealing the silhouette of a girl in the rectangle of light. Izaya steps out of the shadows and into the light of the doorway. “Sakura-chan!” he says, throwing his arms wide, as if to embrace her. “You’re here!”

“Nakura-kun?” the girl replies, and the cold feeling in Shizuo’s gut resolves itself into a block of ice.

Shizuo wants to shout, wants to move, but he can’t. The air is heavy and too warm now, thick like honey. It’s the air of a wish in progress.

He watches as they talk, Izaya floating and animated, the girl heavy and solemn. He’s not surprised when she stands at the edge of the roof and falls. Izaya doesn’t push her, just watches, eyes gleaming red. 

 

_ “But you love me, Shizu-chan. You said so yourself.” _

_ “Huh? When did I say that?” _

_ “You said love is knowing someone inside and out. Knowing their darkest parts and still staying. I’ve showed you my darkest parts and still you stayed.” _

_ “That’s not because I love you. I just have nowhere else to go.” _

 

Sometimes, Izaya tries to implement ‘corporate bonding exercises.’

“I think the meaning is lost on you,” Shizuo says, “there’s only two of us.”

“All the more reason for us to bond, ne? Increase trust and productivity!”

“I don’t trust you  _ at all.  _ And I hate you.” 

“All the more reason. Come on, Shizu-chan, it’s only a movie.” 

It’s not like Shizuo has anything else to do. 

“Fine. What’s the movie.” 

“Oh, it’s one of Yuuhei-kun’s latest—” 

Izaya dodges the coffee table gracefully, but it doesn’t even continue it’s arc to the far wall before it appears back where it had been, nestled in front of the TV like it had never been moved at all. 

“Your complaint has been noted. How about something lighter?” 

Shizuo is standing and his fists are clenched and surely even Izaya has better survival instincts than this.

 

_ “You always have a choice.” _

_ “Then I’m leaving.” _

  
  


“What do you want, Heiwajima Shizuo?” Izaya asks, sprawled lazily at his desk. The fading sun from behind seems to illuminate his eyes to a glowing red. 

Shizuo looks down into his tea, and his wish seems to bubble up from his stomach, press against his chest until he can’t contain it anymore.

“I want someone to love me.”

  
  


“The only way to get what you want is to become a human yourself,” Izaya says, moving from his desk, coming towards Shizuo in a slow, languid way.

“I  _ am  _ human,” Shizuo says, and it feels rote but not true. Like repeating a word over and over until the syllables are nothing but sounds.

“I think we both know that’s not true,” Izaya says. “But it could be.”

Shizuo snorts, “and what would the price for that be? My soul? The rest of my life?”

“So dramatic,” Izaya says. “No, what I want from you is your voice.”

“What?”

“It’s rather a nice one,” Izaya says. “You’ve never trained it, but it has quite the potential. I have a client that’d be willing to pay quite a bit for it. Or maybe I should keep it as a memento. I haven’t decided yet.”

“What the fuck?” 

Izaya laughs, and he’s actually amused, the sound faintly musical. “I’m joking, I’m joking. Who’d want your annoying growl? No, no. You’ve paid your toll working here, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all it would cost?”

“That’s all,” Izaya says, his smirk not dimming in the slightest. “You’ve racked up quite a lot of hours working for me. I hate owing people things. I much prefer it the other way around.”

“You should have mentioned that—”

“Ah, but I’m afraid these things have to come with a few conditions, helps keep the price low, you understand,” Izaya says, moving from sitting on the back of the couch to look at his treasures. “One, you must love them back. Can’t have you wiggling out with a fangirl now, hmm?”

Shizuo nods, “That’s kind of a given in a relationship, isn’t it?”

Izaya just laughs, and it’s actually a joyful sound full of warmth. “Ah, Shizu-chan, you poor, naive soul. Sometimes, the other half doesn’t even need to know that one exists for there to be a relationship.”

“Then that’s not a relationship at all, is it?”

“It’s not my place to judge, Shizu-chan, only to observe and to aid.”

“What other conditions are there?”

“Oh, only one. It’s this one that gives it the real power.”

Izaya comes to sit down on the couch, sitting like they were when Shizuo came to save his brother, minus the tea. 

“What is it?” 

“You have three months,” Izaya says. “All they have to do is say that they love you. All you have to do is say it back.”

“That sounds easy enough.”

Izaya just laughs.

 

He gets a job at a coffee shop at all places, pulling espresso shots and serving customers. 

But. He’s always worked there, hasn’t he? Straight out of high school to barista-hood. He remembers his mom giving him flack for it last Christmas, her only son a  _ barista _ . 

The days pass as they always have, work and then go home to his shitty apartment, watch TV. 

A month passes like this, and he’s dogged with the impression that he’s missing something, something vital. 

His first impression that something’s wrong comes when he absentmindedly slams the portafilter on the counter perhaps a bit too hard. 

But it doesn’t break. 

But it never has before. 

 

He meets someone while he’s at work. 

On the first day, she stands across from the counter, twirling her long, black hair between her fingers, shyly taking her cup. His fingertips brush hers as she takes the cup, and she blushes instead of flinching. 

On the second day, she makes a joke. Shizuo doesn’t remember what it is, but he remembers laughing with unexpected delight.

On the third day, she slips him a note when he hands her her cup and smiles when she leaves. It has numbers written on it in an elegant scrawl, followed by a heart. It smells like expensive perfume, heady and sweet. 

He puts in the pocket of his jeans, where it burns into his skin all the way through to the end of the day. 

 

He’s leaving work one day when he hears sounds of pain. The high shrieks of a distressed girl, the hard jeers of men in power. He’s moving before he’s made a conscious decision, dashing around a corner, into an alleyway. 

He’s not surprised by what he sees, but he is enraged. There’s five of them, five standing, at least. There’s one curled on the ground, long dark hair spread in disarray. 

He’s moving, but he’s not as fast as he remembers. His knuckles crack against the first man’s face, and they hurt,  _ they hurt. _

The thug doesn’t fall to the ground, but punches him back. For the first time in forever, he’s punched and it knocks the wind out of him and he’s staggering. But at least they’re not looking at the woman anymore, the one on the ground. She lifts her head up, and he knows her. She’s the customer that gave him her number, the one that delicately twirled her hair around her fingers. 

He doesn’t remember much of what happens next, just pain and flailing and adrenaline. 

It’s the first time he’s lost a fight in years. Ever, really. Because he doesn’t fight. He’s not sure what makes them leave, in the end. Maybe they got bored. Maybe they heard a noise. 

Whatever it is, she’s supporting him or he’s supporting her, and they’re hobbling somewhere that’s not there.

“My apartment is close by,” she says, and then they have a purpose.

They’re in one of the nicer areas of town, the apartment building clean and sleek where Shizuo’s is rough and grimy. 

She pulls out a keyring with so many keys he thinks it might be able to open every door in the city. But she finds the right one with ease, and he’s in. 

The apartment is cold, impersonal. It’s like Izaya’s, but worse. There’s no indication anyone lives here. No decor, no personality. There’s a single couch in the living room, but not a TV. The kitchen counter doesn’t have a single appliance adorning it. 

She disappears into the bathroom, coming out with a large first aid kit. It’s the kind you get from the army surplus stores, the kind that medics might take into battle. It’s still in the plastic, and it makes a crinkling sound as she opens it. 

“You’re not looking too good, Shizu-chan,” she says as she opens a bottle of something pungent. 

“You don’t either,” Shizuo says, but that’s not quite true. She looks a little disheveled, but otherwise no worse for the wear. She’s beautiful, really. 

“Ah, what a charmer,” she shoots back, wry grin in place. “With lines like that, who can resist?”

“Anyone who knows me, really.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s someone out there for you,” she says, bringing a cotton swab up to dab at a cut crossing his cheek. 

“No,” Shizuo says. “Not someone who really knows me.” 

“That really knows you? How could someone not love a person that charges into danger at their own risk to save someone else?”

All of a sudden, she’s closer than she was before, pretty much breathing the same air. He’s aware of her intentions only as her lips touch his, and though he should have expected it, his mind blanks and shorts out. 

“No,” he says, when she pulls away. “I can’t. I’m sorry. This isn’t actually me— I’m. I’m not that person. I’m not mild-mannered, and I’m not. I’m just  _ not.”  _

 

_ “I granted your wish, Shizu-chan. You wanted someone to love you, and I do. Well, I  _ did.”

 

He goes to Izaya’s apartment because it seems like the place to go. It’s harder to get in now . All his fists do against the door is create a hollow thudding sound and the lock on the door won’t give way no matter how hard he twists. 

But he is nothing but persistent. It takes almost an hour of him shoving his shoulder up against the door again and again and again, but the wood begins to crack and the hinges began to creak.

His shoulder is a mass of bruises by the time he manages to get the door broken enough for him to squeeze through.

The apartment is dark. Not simply with an absence of light, but like it never had light to begin with. It should be dawn outside, but the large windows don’t show anything but darkness, not even with the hint of silhouettes Shizuo knows should be there, have been there every other time he’s looked out the window. 

His breath fogs in the air in front of him, but he doesn’t feel cold. 

There’s a clatter from the shelf where Izaya keeps his prizes. Shizuo looks over, but all is still. 

There’s the resounding clatter of glass breaking, something solid hitting the floor. 

There’s a picture frame on the floor, the glass holding the photo in place all but dust. Carefully, Shizuo slides the photo free of the shards of glass and holds it up to the meager light streaming in from the broken door. 

It’s a picture of him and Kasuka from when they were children, Shizuo’s arm flung casually over his brother’s shoulders, wide grin a sharp contrast to his brother’s flat expression. 

As he watches, he sees his expression start to shift, his eyes getting wider. 

The photo’s mouth moves slowly, mouthing out a word that it takes him several seconds to decipher. 

_ Run.  _

And then he remembers why he’s there.

“Ah, Shizuo. What a surprise to see you here.”

Izaya doesn’t sound surprised at all.

 

He stares at Izaya, silhouetted in the doorway by the light filtering in through the hall.

“I need to be here,” Shizuo says. 

“Now why’s that?” Izaya asks, leaning against the doorframe, the very picture of nonchalance.

“I’m not me,” Shizuo says. “I can’t be loved if I’m not  _ me. _ ” 

“It’s okay,” Izaya says, voice low and mocking. “No one loves you anyway.”

Izaya steps into his apartment and everything seems to snap into place, into reality. There’s light coming through the window now, buildings visible.

“I thought you loved all humans?”

“I thought so, too. But I don’t.” Izaya cocks his head to the side. “Ah, but you never know what you had until it’s gone, right? I’ve been wrong before.”

“Are you saying,” Shizuo licks his lips and tries again. “Are you saying you love me?” 

“No, no. I’m saying I  _ loved  _ you. Past tense. How can I love you when you don’t have a dark side, hm? Wasn’t that your own definition of love?” 

“I want to be me again,” Shizuo says. He’s not quite sure what that means, exactly, but he knows he doesn’t like this gaping hole where something was. 

“Why’d you come here?” Izaya asks, and the question feels like it has weight. It has importance, more than Shizuo can grasp. 

“Because,” Shizuo says, “I watched you throw a girl off the side of a building and I came back with you. Because your feet are cold and I don’t mind. Because this is the first place I came to when I didn’t know what to do.”

“What are you saying, Shizuo? I’m afraid you’re going to need to spell it out.” 

“I love you.”

 

Izaya moves across the room, coming to stand in front of Shizuo, placing a hand gently on his cheek. It’s not warm, but it’s not cold either. He looks into Shizuo’s eyes, searching. He must find what he’s looking for, because he steps back and crosses his arms. 

“I’ve hidden you somewhere in the apartment,” Izaya says. “If you can find him, you can have him.”

 

Somewhere in the apartment. 

It’s not a large apartment, but somehow it seems to grow twice in size.

But Shizuo already has a suspicion of where he is. Izaya has a fondness for the classical references, for odd imagery and symbolism. 

He goes into the bathroom and stares at his reflection.

Except it’s not his reflection. He’s standing calmly, watching. But his reflection is snarling in rage, pounding at the glass with his fists. His reflection’s fists are a bloody mess, red soaking the cuffs of the white shirt all the way down the forearm. 

He’d like to say that he hesitated when confronted with himself, snarling and angry. But he doesn’t. He swings his fist and it connects dully with the mirror. He punches again and again, until spiderwebs form and shards start to rain over the sink. Again, until his knuckles are shredded and the pain of connecting with the mirror is almost enough to make him stop. But he hits it again, until the pain fades and he  _ remembers. _

He remembers making a deal and he remembers seeing Izaya at the coffee shop and Izaya taking him back to an empty apartment after his fight and Izaya making him realize that he was not him.

And speak of the devil, there’s Izaya standing in the bathroom, watching. Red eyes revealing nothing until he smiles, sharp and sudden. 

“Welcome back, Shizu-chan. Did I grant your wish to your satisfaction?”

“What?”

Izaya moves into the bathroom, takes Shizuo’s bleeding hands into his own. “You wanted to accept yourself. How tedious, but I did it. It’s one of my finer works.”

“Then what was all that shit about loving someone else?”

“Distraction.” Izaya looks up at him through heavy eyelashes. “But I’ll make you a deal, if you’re really that distraught. Your love for mine?”

“No.” Izaya’s face barely has time to flash to anger before Shizuo finishes. “Mine is freely given.” 

“I don’t like inequalities.” 

“Then love me back.”

Izaya laughs, but into Shizuo’s shoulder, and it feels like a victory.


End file.
